Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  Sanguinius saw incarnation.

  He saw a massive fist pick up a re-wrought axe from the smoking base of the crater, a crater that had become a crucible.

  He saw the mountainous bulk of a winged figure rising out of the crater.

  It turned to face him. Their eyes locked. They gazed at one another, across all intervals of time and distance, as though they stood face to face.

  Brother to brother.

  Sanguinius looked into Angron’s eyes.

  Angron glared back at Sanguinius. He slowly raised his left hand, where new skin was yet to grow back over the oozing meat. He licked the blood from it.

  ‘My blood for the Blood God,’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘No,’ said Brohn. ‘No, that’s… No, that’s entirely not possible, it… No no no no no-‘

  Cadwalder took the man by the throat, and shook him.

  ‘It’s happening,’ he hissed.

  ‘It really is,’ said Saul Niborran, gazing down at the wastes below.

  Angron, Lord of the XII, Red Angel, daemon-prince and Eater of Worlds, lumbered clear of the burning crater. His physical mass now seemed colossal, a gore giant, flesh flayed and bleeding, golden battleplate burned clean and gleaming. He began to stride towards the barrier wall, each step shaking the ground. His pace accelerated. The long braids and plugs that trailed from the back of his scalp billowed behind him in a knotted, black-clotted mane. His hellish wings, larger than before, spread like rotting sailcloth. He raised his axe, and behind him the mass formations of the World Eaters roared, and followed his charge, a reverberating stampede that blocked the sky with dust across the horizon.

  Angron opened his jaws, stretching the bloody, excoriated flesh of his. distended face, revealing fangs so long and sharp they seemed capable of tearing out the galaxy’s throat.

  He howled. All coherence had fled from him, all words consumed in the bestial tumult of his berserk state.

  He simply howled. A keening, savage, wordless noise.

  But its meaning was clear enough.

  PART THREE

  FOUR VICTORIES

  (TO THE DEATH)

  ONE

  * * *

  Dead lines

  Trickster

  Discord

  ‘Something…’ said Al-Nid Nazira, perplexed. ‘My khan, lord, please come. Something has occurred.’

  Shiban Khan turned from the work crews he was supervising. It was hot on the high platform, and the docking ring above them offered only partial shade. The crews, all civilians or port guild, were drenched in sweat as they toiled around the two Sysiphos-pattern tugs.

  ‘That’s the High Primary’s concern, Nazira,’ he said. ‘We have our own duties to perform.’

  Nazira, an Auxilia captain, a good and sober man, had been Shiban’s chosen aide since the day Shiban had arrived at the port. He’d taken a liking to him at once, seeing the purposeful determination with which Nazira had attempted to bring order to the confusion and, needing reliable officers, Shiban had made him his second.

  ‘My khan, you should see this,’ Nazira called back.

  Shiban put down the tools he had been using, and walked over to Nazira, picking his way between the heaps of surplus components and fittings that the crews had already stripped out of the tugs. The junk, trailing wires and unfastened brackets, littered the landing pad in the hard sunlight. Nazira stood at the rail, staring down.

  They were fifteen hundred metres up on the port’s tertiary landing pylon, still quite low down in terms of the pylon structures, which soared above them into the sky, threatening to pierce the heavens. But it was still a long drop. The port megastructure was spread below them like a large-scale map. The sunlight was bright, rippled and tinted by the void fields that still shielded the upper- and inter-orbit extents of the gn at port. Down below, cloud banks of what looked like russet smog drifted like dead leaves across the expanse of Western Freight and the adjoining scarred landscape where the port’s Celestial City had once stood. Blacker cloud lingered to the west, over the site of the Pons Solar.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Shiban asked.

  Nazira pointed down.

  ‘Look, there, and there,’ he said. ‘Those are serious engagements.’ ‘Nazira, we know they’re fighting down there-‘

  ‘No,’ said Nazira. ‘Before, it was focused on the gates of the barrier wall. At the west. There. But it’s spread. Increased. Just now, there was a serious bombardment from the wall guns. Look! Look, again!’ Shiban uncoupled his helm from his belt, and clamped it on, bringing up visual enhancement and audio gain to his visor. He enlarged a great belt of smoke and dust, the thick line of the barrier wall, the towers, the main bulk of Monsalvant Gard. He saw numerous flashes the sunlight glinting off moving metal, and weapons fire, concentrated and intense. Audio carried the distant boom and crack of it. Naziia was right. The enemy was still mobbing the barrier gates, but a vast horde, like something spilled and spreading from an insect hill, was swarming at the entire length of the southern line.

  ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’ Nazira asked. ‘It’s worse, isn’t it? It’s escalated, in the last few minutes.’

  It had. It looked disastrous. Shiban thought about lying, keeping Nazira in the dark a while longer, so he might work without worry. But Nazira was his comrade, his friend, and they were in this together.

  ‘It’s much worse,’ Shiban said. ‘The World Eaters have begun a mass-war assault to storm the wall.’

  ‘Should we… should we go back down?’ asked Nazira.

  ‘There’s no value in that,’ said Shiban.

  ‘Except honour?’ Nazira suggested.

  ‘We can honour our comrades more by trying to finish our task,’ said Shiban. ‘Our presence down there won’t make the slightest difference, but several heavy grav-weapons might. How long?’

  Nazira shrugged. He glanced at the work teams, toiling around the bulky, utilitarian craft.

  ‘Another hour?’ he ventured. ‘Then we can ship them down to the surface-level platforms under their own power, and begin assembly. I don’t know about the other crews.’

  ‘Go and get them moving,’ said Shiban. ‘Don’t alarm them, but get their motivation up. Let’s see if we can take a few minutes off that hour. I’ll worry about the other crews.’

  Nazira nodded, and hurried back to join the working party. Shiban walked across the dock pad and into the deep shade of the massive docking ring. The pad’s pylon side connected directly to the immense structure of the tertiary spire. There were four large hatches, the mouths of bulk freight elevators. An inspection plate had been removed from the wall between two of them, allowing access to the port power supply, and to hardline datacast and links. Spools of cables and tube connectors suckled at the inspection cavity and trailed away across the deck, like sleeping pythons, towards the parked tugs and labouring crews.

  Shiban disconnected the hanging loop of the hardline cable from a voxcaster resting on the deck, and connected it to his suit system. He selected voice-to-Hortcode delivery.

  ‘This is Shiban, work party six, tertiary pylon level forty. Monsalvant, respond.’

  A crackle.

  ‘Monsalvant, respond and report status.’

  More static, like crumpling plastic film.

  ‘Monsalvant, respond. Command cadre, respond. Tower Seven? Tower Six? Barrier gateway? This is Shiban, work party six. Respond and report status.’

  The link answered with broken pops and spilled-acid hissing. He tried, in turn, the other work crews – teams like his own, deployed across tertiary and secondary pylons to scavenge parts and equipment and recover other useable craft. There were eighteen teams altogether.

  None of them answered. Shiban hoped it was simply a problem with the hardline connection. But surely a hardwired network couldn’t have broken in multiple places?

  He tried them again. Then he tried Monsalvant again.

  * * *
/>
  Mistress Tacticae Katarin Elg entered the Saturnine forward command post, walked directly to her station, sat down, and put on her headset.

  Her hands moved across the keypads, and the desk came to life, displays illuminating, screens lighting.

  ‘Trickster, this is Trickster,’ she said, with steady, declarative calm. ‘Show Trickster live at this time. All kill teams report status, datacast only.’

  Several responses crackled into her earpiece in quick succession. As they came in, she marked them on the board with quick, haptic gestures, her eyes darting from screen to screen.

  ‘This is Trickster, showing you as ready, kill teams. Standby.’

  She switched channels from datacast to hardlink.

  ‘Trickster to wallguard vigil.’

  ‘This is vigil, Trickster.’

  ‘Trickster reads you, Captain Madius. Commence visual scanning.’ ‘Acknowledged, Trickster.’

  She sat back briefly, though her hands continued to play across the keys.

  ‘Kill teams report ready, my lord,’ she said. ‘Wallguard vigil is on active watch. We are live. Operation count has begun.’

  Dorn nodded. The forward command post was a small gallery chamber near one of the deployment halls. It had probably once been a wine cellar, before all the basement levels had been seized, hollowed-out and fortified. Both long walls were lined with strategium desks, their screens and displays blinking in the gloom, illuminating the faces of the tacticians and operators who sat, back to back, manning the positions. There was a constant fidget of movement, of hands adjusting controls, a constant low murmur of voices as they spoke into their headsets, a constant crackling chatter of transmit responses.

  ‘So noted, mistress,’ said Dorn. ‘Proceed.’

  Elg acknowledged his go-order. Her face impassive, she turned back to her desk.

  ‘Query hardline link to Grand Borealis?’ she said.

  ‘Hardline link standing by, mistress,’ the operator at the desk beside her replied.

  ‘Hardline link live, please,’ she said.

  ‘Hardline link is live,’ said the operator.

  ‘Trickster, this is Trickster,’ she said. ‘Acknowledge my signal, Grand Borealis.’

  * * *

  In the heart of the vast bustle of the Grand Borealis chamber, Archamus sat forward at his desk. He raised his left hand, and pointed to Mistress Icaro. She saw his gesture, handed back the dataslate she had been reviewing, and crossed to his station immediately. The Huscarl passed her a headset, and she put it on, standing at his shoulder.

  ‘Grand Borealis,’ said Archamus. ‘Trickster, we hear you, you are live.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Grand Borealis,’ Elg’s voice answered in their ears. ‘Count has begun at this time. Trickster requests tracking evaluation.’

  ‘Standby, Trickster,’ said Archamus.

  Icaro stepped to the strategium station beside Archamus’ console, she brought the display up, centred, enlarged and locked.

  ‘Commencing tracking evaluation,’ she said. ‘Sifting all track, all seismic and all listening watch in target zone. Summary will be datacast by hardlink to you in twelve seconds, Trickster.’

  ‘Trickster, standing by.’

  Icaro and Archamus waited as the vast processors of Bhab Bastion diverted a small fragment of their tasking power to Icaro’s specifics. It felt sly, uncomfortable. There was over a thousand personnel at work in the Borealis around them, operators at watch and vox-stations, War Court tacticians around display tables, marshals and lords militant at overwatch desks. A babble of voices and activity, the living brain and nervous system of the siege, monitoring and supervising thousands of separate battles and engagements, troop deployments, munition transfers, supply demands, aegis stability, received intelligence. Officers, servitors and despatch runners hurried to and fro; rubricators scurried past, arms laden with fresh reports; cartomancers adjusted the flag markers that throbbed and shifted gently on vast hololith displays.

  None of them knew what Archamus and Icaro were doing. None had been briefed or read-in. None of them knew anything about the events unfolding leagues to the south of them in the Saturnine Quarter.

  Archamus felt uneasy. Not even Vorst, at a nearby station, was aware. The Master of Huscarls drummed his fingers gently. Icaro glanced at his hand. Such a curious and tellingly human mannerism. She smiled.

  ‘I’ll stop,’ said Archamus.

  ‘Please don’t, lord’ she replied. ‘It’s good to know I’m not the only one feeling this tension.’

  She looked at her board.

  ‘First track results,’ she said. ‘Datacasting to you now, Trickster.’

  * * *

  ‘Thank you, Grand Borealis, standby,’ said Elg. The data streamed onto her desk monitor. She gestured, and the haptic command threw it up on the post’s main displays. Tracking seismic pulse,’ she said.

  ‘Seismic pulse confirmed, forty kilometres, spread,’ agreed a nearby operator.

  ‘Do we have target track?’ asked Dorn.

  ‘Analysing data product…’ replied Elg. ‘Negative. Seismic pulse reads as backwash vibration from the bombardments at Europa Wall section and Western Projection Wall section.’

  ‘The distraction actions,’ said Dorn.

  ‘We presume they are distractions, lord,’ said Elg.

  ‘They’re distractions,’ said Dorn.

  ‘They are intense enough to mask surface and sub-surface in the immediate zone,’ said the operator.

  ‘Are we blind?’ asked Dorn.

  ‘Washing them through separation filters, lord,’ said Elg. ‘But there may not be a signal to read yet.’

  She glanced at him.

  ‘If they’re coming tonight,’ she added. ‘Or at all.’

  Dorn didn’t reply.

  ‘Trickster, this is Trickster,’ said Elg, returning to her screens. ‘Datacast received, Grand Borealis. Initial results show negative track, repeat, negative track. Please proceed to supply tracking evaluation databursts at five-minute intervals from this mark.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Trickster,’ the link crackled.

  Dorn turned from the quiet, ceaseless activity of the small room. Diamantis stood in the doorway.

  ‘We’re waiting,’ Dorn said.

  ‘Ninety-nine per cent of a soldier’s life, lord,’ said Diamantis.

  That almost brought a smile to the Praetorian’s face.

  ‘Update me,’ said Dorn. ‘The sealing programme?’

  ‘Magos Land reports ready,’ said Diamantis. ‘Some teething problems… A clogging issue with jet nozzles, or something.’

  ‘That’s not encouraging.’

  ‘His processes have been conjured out of nothing in a matter of hours, lord,’ said Diamantis. They have not been rigorously tested. But if he says it will work, I believe him. All of his staff, except for essential operation crews, have been evacuated from the site.’

  ‘The Sigillite?’

  ‘Already escorted back to the Upper Palatine, as per your instructions,’ said Diamantis.

  ‘Good,’ said Dorn. ‘He absolutely can’t be here for this. Nowhere near.’

  ‘He seemed disappointed, my lord,’ said the Huscarl. Tetchy. He entirely supports the significance of what’s happening here. I think he wanted to witness it for himself’

  ‘That’s what we have the remembrancers for,’ said Dorn.

  ‘Interrogators,’ said Diamantis.

  Dorn looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘You want to correct me?’

  ‘We can call them whatever you like, Praetorian,’ said Diamantis.

  Dorn grunted. ‘Well, call them in here’, he said. ‘The forward post is probably the best place for them.’

  ‘So they can see what’s happening?’

  ‘So they don’t get underfoot.’

  Diamantis nodded, and stepped out into the hallway. He gestured to a p
air of Hort Palatine guardsmen.

  ‘Bring the interrogators through,’ he said.

  They stepped forward, bringing the boy, Therajomas, between them. The young man was clutching his slate. He looked as if he was about to shit himself with terror.

  ‘Me?’ he asked.

  ‘In here,’ said Diamantis. ‘Observe. Record. Don’t touch anything.’ The Huscarl paused.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked the guards. ‘Where’s the old man Sindermann?’

  * * *

  ‘It’s been a while, Garviel,’ said Sindermann.

  Loken straightened up.

  ‘It has,’ he replied. He held out his hand. Sindermann clasped the giant, armoured paw gingerly.

  ‘There wasn’t an opportunity to speak earlier,’ said Sindermann.

  ‘But I wanted to find you, before-‘

  ‘You’ve found me,’ said Loken.

  They were in deployment hall six, close to the assayed line of the flaw. The chamber was a brick cistern, a basement vault extended by servitor teams who had drilled out the subrock. Behind Loken, his kill team was assembling, weapons ready. One hundred legionaries, most of them Imperial Fists. It was quiet, but for a few low conversations and the clack and snap of magazines slotting and power feeds connecting. There was a suspended hush that reminded Sindermann of a temple or place of worship, a congregation assembled in prayer. The closest equivalent these days, he reflected.

  One wall of the chamber had been removed, and they could see through into the neighbouring deployment hall, hall seven. Sigismund and his kill team were prepping quietly there. Another hundred men, also Imperial Fists, but these marked with the blacks and charcoals of the Templar order.

  The seven kill teams had been given call signs, as Sindermann understood it. Sigismund’s was Devotion, Garro’s was Strife, Haar’s was Black Dog, Bel Sepatus’ was Brightest, Gallor’s was Seventh, and Thane’s was Helios.

  Loken’s was Naysmith.

  ‘It seems an age ago when I last saw you in those colours,’ said Sindermann.